My fingertips dig
into the rough, teal cover
of an Everyman’s Library
copy of Return of the Native.
A meager ledge, a final attempt
to seize the thread of humanity
by grasping at the words
we weave.
I have sat many seasons
re-reading the same book,
re-treading the same descriptions
of wild heath.
Our actions are less permanent.
Our lives escape clean narration.
Language stretches
beyond our sorrows.
